Mundane
by TheHighestPie
Summary: Even Enjolras has his off days, when his desire for transcendence leaves him all the more earthbound. The first of a few ficlets that I'm transferring over from the tumblr-space.


There are days when the rhythms of their conversation lift him up to greater and greater heights of solemn visionary joy. From his customary corner of the Musain's back room, all he need do is place a pen in his hand and stare into the fire, and the individual voices of his compatriots and friends open up wider vistas of what tomorrow might bring. They are not wrong when they call him 'dreamer' in these moments of reverie, when his feet are on the ground but his thoughts far beyond the horizon.

But there are days like this one when he finds himself unable to ascend above the daily hubbub of all their debts and mistresses and news from home. It is all so horribly mundane, the gossip of lecture rooms and dance halls, and it grates through his ears and constricts his chest. He tries to focus on the paper before him but Grantaire's harsh laugh fills the room, clatters around his skull, and settles as a roiling discontentment low in his chest. The room is too loud. The fire is too warm. His cravat is too tight. And it shames him that such things weigh him down.

Retreat is an option, but not an honorable one. He is needed here, and will not sulk off from some nameless discontentment. He drops his pen and discreetly clenches his hands below the table as Combeferre and Jehan pull out a pair of chairs too near to him, sniping back and forth at each other over the translation of some line of Aeschylus.

He is one of their number and also not; of this world and yet constantly frustrated by the countless little cords that it loops about his ankles. He must reschedule a meeting with a representative of the Societé des Amis du Peuple. He must settle a bill with his washerwoman, and bring two of his coats to his tailor for mending. His shoes are worn, his second cousin asking for money, his mother asking for news, his compatriots nattering on about nothings when there are whole _worlds_ of wonder to be discussed. Childish, _childish_ of him to want to stand up and shout for silence.

"Mankind sickens me," declaims Grantaire from the other end of the room where Joly is resolutely ignoring him, and Enjolras feels his chin raise from where he has been unconsciously sneering at the table. Grantaire, with his predictably flawless ability to sense Enjolras' gaze upon him, immediately falls silent. Grantaire begins to look ashamed of himself, then processes the fact that Enjolras is looking at him not with disappointment but a sort of compassion. His whole face twitches and then falls open in amazed tenderness. Enjolras nods once before granting him a sympathetic quirk of the mouth and turning away.

So Grantaire is no longer ranting, but that just makes the rest of the noise in the room sound all the louder. Joly's latest ailment. Courfeyrac's latest intrigues. So many anecdotes, all of them already told a thousand times, today stale before the speaker even draws breath to relate the tale. Enjolras has no feelings worth putting into words. The paper before him remains jarringly blank. He sighs harshly, lets his forehead fall into his palms, and –

- jerks as a hand settles itself on his shoulder. Combeferre. He ungraciously shrugs off the touch. He cannot presently deal with Combeferre's prodding concern, and feels himself unworthy of his compassion. He spins around when the unwelcome touch tries to resettle itself on his arm.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Go home, Enjolras" Combeferre says firmly, to his surprise. "You look unwell."

"I don't need any medical attention."

"All the same," he persists with a little smile, "there's been a storm cloud brewing on your brow, and if there were anything we could do to help, you would have told us already. Get some air. Get some sleep. We can look after ourselves, you know."

Enjolras lifts his eyebrows.

Combeferre laughs at his expression. "Fine, fine! But at least we can look after each other. You take too much on yourself."

"Quite the claim for you to make," Enjolras sighs in resignation, already standing in spite of himself. He cannot deny the wash of relief he feels at the promise of the door. "Thank you, my friend," he murmurs, then flees.

He winces at the even louder clacking of dominoes and glasses in the main room, but as he ducks out the front door, he feels all the hidden tension seep out of the line of his shoulders. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow will be another day.


End file.
